The Bird and the Worm
by ScaryScarecrows
Summary: Once upon a time, there was a little boy named Jonathan Crane.
1. Comfort

AN: A collection of one-shots taking place during Jonathan's childhood. There are, after all, certain things that should be addressed-Granny, the creation of Scarecrow… The main title comes from The Used's 'The Bird and the Worm', which fits him so well. You know, when he was young and huggable.

* * *

A young Jonathan Crane sits in his room, hungry, scared, and alone. Granny sent him to bed without supper-a surprisingly mild punishment. He blames her broken ankle, and dreads what she'll do when she's recovered. That really is his fault, in a way-in an effort to get away from her, he ran into the cornfield. When she followed, she fell wrongly in a small hole and broke her ankle.

His stomach growls and he clasps his hands over it as if to shut it up. He's very tired and beginning to be ill. What he'd give for a glass of milk!

_Scarecrow?_

Scarecrow is his imaginary friend. He protects him from the nightmares and keeps him company when he's locked in his room or out in that god-forsaken chapel. Usually when Jonathan's not playing with him, he sleeps in a black corner of his head.

Sure enough, there's the familiar feeling of the straw man-for Scarecrow truly is a scarecrow, a twisted, rotting scarecrow-stretching and awakening.

**_Jonny! What's up, kiddo?_**

_Granny's mad at me._

**_That's normal._**There's a low chuckle that would be downright frightening if it came from anyone else. **_What else is new?_**

_Nothing._

He can never hide anything from Scarecrow, no matter how hard he tries. It's a small price to pay for having a friend.

**_Don't tell lies, Jonny. You know I don't like it when you tell lies._**

He bites his lip and clenches his hands tighter over his stomach.

_The kids at school broke my glasses. That's why she's mad._

**_Is that so?_**

If he closes his eyes, he can feel a raspy arm lay itself across his shoulders. Security. Safety. Even if it's only in his head.

_Uh-huh._

**_You know what I'd like to do to those kids at school?_**

_Scarecrow, please don't…_

**_I'd like to wring their little necks like they're real crows! _**He laughs uproariously. **_How would ya like that, Jonny-boy?_**

_That's murder._

**_That's justice. Can I help it if they overlap? _**The rough fingers tousle his hair. **_Go to sleep, kiddo._**

He pulls away from the rough arm and digs out his pyjamas. They're old, and far too big for him, but he doesn't dare complain. All the same, it gives him the creeps to think that they once belonged to Granny's dead brother.

**_Eh. No such thing as ghosts._**

_I think there's such thing as ghosts._

**_Don't be an idiot. Go to sleep._**

He sets his broken glasses on the nightstand and curls up under the blankets, trying to ignore his growling stomach and runny nose.

_Scarecrow?_

**_What?_**

_You promise there's no such thing as ghosts?_

**_Would I lie to you?_**

_Yes._

**_Humph. Yeah, yeah, I promise._**

_Thanks, Scarecrow._

**_Go to sleep, kiddo._**

He pulls the blankets over his head and closes his eyes. He's asleep when Granny comes to unlock the door.

THE END


	2. Chapel

AN: _The first person to say anything that could be construed as 'poor baby' will be killed in the slowest way possible._

SwordStitcher-_HEADS. WILL. ROLL. __**Aww, you were cute! I forgot how pathetic you were. **__Thanks, Scarecrow. __**Ah, the good old days, when you actually liked me... **__Don't start that again. __**WHERE DID I GO WRONG?**__ Scarecrow... __**WHY DON'T YOU LOVE ME?**_

* * *

"Put your suit on, Jonathan. Now."

Why? Where are they going?

"Granny?"

"Now!"

He goes upstairs and fetches his suit out of the closet, feeling very confused. Why does he have to put his Sunday suit on at this hour? It's already seven o' clock at night!

It feels strange to him-a little bit stiff. All the same, he puts it on and goes back down, wondering what's going on.

"Come along, child."

Where are they going?

He doesn't dare to ask her any questions, but he's beginning to be frightened.

She drags him outside, past the old car that's on its last legs, past the cornfield, towards a crumbling old building that he's often seen but never been in.

"That was our old chapel when I was a girl, child." she says, her hand like a vice around his wrist. "Mother insisted on a chapel, but Dad would have his birds."

What did that have to do with anything?

"You should have seen it in its glory, child!" she continues, an expression of bliss on her face. "One day, perhaps, I'll find our old album and show you."

Okay…?

"Go in, Jonathan."

In there? But it's dark and the roof has fallen in. He doesn't want to go in there.

He tries to hide behind her skirts and she shoves him inside instead.

Before he can get his bearings, the door closes and he hears the bolt shoot into place.

"Granny?"

"This will get the Devil out of you, child."

Devil? All he'd been doing was reading, honest…

"Granny, please…"

She begins to sing, her cracked voice growing fainter as she walks away. What's going on? Surely she's not going to leave him here!

"Granny!" He pounds on the door and gets splinters. "Granny, please! I'll be good, I promise!"

There's a noise up above and he looks up. There's a crow perched on the edge of the roof. He's never liked crows. They're big and they puff up when they're mad.

He sits down by the door and tries to make himself unobtrusive. This is bad enough without making the crow mad.

Another comes, and another. They're all just staring at him. When's Granny coming back?

One flutters down to the ground in front of him and pecks his ankle. He swats at it.

Then they all come down and everything is a blur of cawing and black feathers and panicked screams.

By the time Granny lets him out, he's shivering and there's a gash on his forehead and blood on his torn clothes. She cleans him up and makes him leave his suit downstairs for repair. She says nothing about the crows.

Maybe Granny really is a witch.

THE END


	3. Good

AN: Takes place directly after _Chapel_.

SwordStitcher-_As if I need the reminder. **Hey, you got me out of it, so it wasn't that bad. **Sometimes I have to wonder about that. **I could have left you there to suffer alone.** I made you up! **I gifted you with my presence. **YOU WERE IMAGINARY! **That got boring.**_

* * *

Looking at him, with a claw mark streaking across his throat and his clothes sticky with blood, she wonders if she's gone too far. Maybe there are other ways to go about this.

But are there? The Devil is strong, he will not leave simply on an old woman's say-so. And given the boy's…precarious position, _someone_ has to look after him.

"Granny."

He flings his arms around her waist, sobbing into her skirt. She rubs his head and hopes they won't have to do this again.

"Come along, child." she says softly. "There's no need for tears."

To his credit, he pulls himself together by the time they go back to the house. She doesn't tuck him in-he's far too old for such nonsense-but she does peek in later, after he's asleep. He looks younger than seven and she wonders again if this was too much.

No matter. It was for his own good. If she didn't love him, she wouldn't bother.

Too old or not, she goes in and fusses with his blanket, tucking it in a little further and smoothing it down. There. Much better.

"Good night, child." she whispers. She leaves the room, leaving the door open a crack-he's scared of the dark, always has been-and walks on down the hall.

It really was for his own good.

THE END


	4. Photograph

AN: There really is a photograph of Jonathan and Granny in her bedroom. So apparently love makes you crazy and evil? The world may never know.

SwordStitcher-_I don't believe that she ever felt proper guilt. She wanted something to need her, something to redeem. She got it. __**She failed miserably.**__ This is true. __**I'm hungry. **__Seriously? __**I want pizza. **__I hate pizza. __**You don't have to eat it. Move, I want pepperoni.**_

APieceOfThePuzzle-_She didn't have the cane yet. Luckily for me. **Luckily for her! I would've hit her face with it over and over and OVER AND OVER! UNTIL SHE DIDN'T HAVE TEETH! **Thank you for that...lovely image. **You're welcome. **As for the time travel...there is no such thing._

* * *

He has only been in Granny's room twice. Once when she was out and he was curious, and once after she broke her ankle and wanted him to fetch something.

What struck him was the photograph on her dresser. He remembers the day it was taken-Easter Sunday, when he was eight years old. He didn't know she'd kept it, and he didn't think she would have stuck it on her dresser.

She had her hand on his shoulder for this shot, probably to make sure he didn't do anything besides stand there and stare at the camera. He remembers being frightened at the close proximity and it shows-she's smiling, while he's wide-eyed and half-grimacing.

He really has no idea why she'd had the picture taken in the first place, let alone put it in her bedroom.

Maybe it's some sort of Voodoo doll? He doesn't know how that would work, but…

When he goes up there after her death, seven years later, he doesn't change a thing apart from turning the picture facedown.

THE END


	5. Story Hour

AN: _I don't know why she bothered telling me this. Maybe she was trying to induce nightmares? __**It worked.**__ It didn't help that the upstairs...never mind. She did it. I know she did it. Maybe that's what made her what she...was. Or maybe she was insane to begin with. **You had to get it somewhere. **True._

SwordStitcher-_I can. **He's weird. **I only remained there for another two months after her death, and Mrs. Richardson was kind enough to have me over often. I would have removed her picture from the hallway, but it was stuck and I didn't want it falling on my head._

APieceOfThePuzzle-_Time travel...bah, humbug. There is no such thing. There never will be any such thing. **Let people have their dreams! LET ME HOPE! **Not you, too... **You always wanted to see dinosaurs. **Every eight year-old wants to see dinosaurs. I grew out of that. **Humph.**_

* * *

He's been conditioned to panic whenever Granny calls him. She only ever wants to see him if she's upset or if she wants him to do something. It's a fifty-fifty split, really.

He goes downstairs anyway, hoping she wants him to weed or something, and finds her sitting in the parlor with a wide, heavy-looking book on her lap and a glass of iced tea on the table next to her.

"Sit down, child."

Next to her? Within grabbing range of those arthritis-twisted talons?

He sits as far away from her as he dares, his hands clasped tightly in his lap. What does she want? She didn't find the book, did she? Surely she didn't…he hid it well this time, far under the bed.

She opens the book-surprisingly dust free-and he spots a page with photographs stuck to it. There's the chapel, before the roof fell in-it looked creepy even then-and the house itself, when it was newly built.

She flips through, looking for something in particular, and suddenly stops.

"This," she says, tapping on a picture with a gnarled finger, "was my older brother. You are named for him."

Great.

He looks, just to be on the safe side. He looks nothing like this brother. For starters, the child is sitting in one of those old wicker wheelchairs.

"He died when he was eight." she says, stroking the picture. "A terrible tragedy. Mother and Father were absolutely devastated."

Where is this going?

"I'm…sorry?"

She doesn't seem to hear him.

"One afternoon during the storm season, there was an accident. Somehow or another, he fell out of his chair and down the stairs. Nobody could figure out how it happened." She sighs and takes a sip of her tea. "We all heard this terrible sound,"-she imitates it on the wooden table and he shudders-"and a shriek, but by the time we got there, Jonny was lying in a twisted mess at the foot of the staircase."

Why is she telling him this?

"We always supposed he snagged that chair on the rug, but…we were never quite sure." She closes the book. "I always wondered if there was something more sinister at play…he was a rather entitled little boy. Made my parents' life very difficult indeed, and always expected us girls to entertain him. I hated him."

He swallows hard and silently agrees that there was something more sinister at play there. He can see it now, actually-Granny, perhaps in pigtails and a pink dress, shoving her hated sibling out of the chair that rainy afternoon, watching him tumble down, down…

She wouldn't do that to _him_, would she?

"That's enough story time." she says suddenly. "I need you to bring me some potatoes from the cellar, and then go and make sure the windows are closed. There's a storm coming."

Call him paranoid, but he'll be making sure there's no one behind him before he comes back downstairs.

THE END


	6. Guilt

AN: _I question the reality of this. Although she might have been panicking about what the school would do...I doubt they'd do anything, but stranger things have happened._

Scary made a Wattpad account! I like it. Only problem is that it's flooded with One (1? Wun? I DON'T KNOW!) Direction stories. Creepy...anyways, if anybody has one and wants to find me over there, it's the same username-ScaryScarecrows. Just beware the band fics...*Twilight Zone theme plays*

APieceOfThePuzzle-_Nothing whatsoever. **It's from some Christmas story. Christmas Ghosts or something. **A Christmas Carol, Scarecrow. Scrooge says it. Constantly. What are they teaching you children these days...? **You're mean to the reviewers, Jon. **So are you. **Fun, isn't it?**_

* * *

He isn't moving. He's breathing-barely-but he isn't moving.

She isn't sure which is worse-that she didn't notice or that he didn't tell her. Tendrils of guilt curl around her stomach. How could she have been so blind? He didn't catch pneumonia overnight!

Why didn't he tell her he was sick? The first she heard of it was when the school called-no more observant than she was, apparently-and asked her to pick him up. She hadn't been pleased-had he gotten in a fight yet again? They couldn't afford new glasses!-but she'd come all the same.

And he had been very, very sick.

He coughs, one arm curling around the raggedy stuffed rabbit. Why didn't he say something? They could have avoided all of this if he'd just _said something_, for _once in his life_…

Idiot child.

He coughs again and whimpers something that sounds like, "Granny, m'sorry."

Her heart catches and the guilt tightens its grip. Maybe she's too hard on the boy…but spare the rod, spoil the child.

That thought does nothing to quell the guilt and she reaches over to pet his head. His skin is hot and his hair is sticking to his face. She brushes it aside.

"It's all right, child."

He doesn't make any more noise and she picks up the big book of fairy tales and nursery rhymes that her grandmother had always read from. It's starting to crumble now, the once-red binding more of a dark brown, but the pages inside are still in fine shape.

"Sing a song of sixpence, a pocketful of rye…"

THE END


	7. Imaginary Friend

SwordStitcher-_He once thought I was some sort of hormone-crazed fangirl. Fought me tooth and nail when I tried to strip him.__ I don't remember that. You were hallucinating. Why were you forcibly removing my clothing? Ice bath. Oh. Um...that's...that's nice. She probably did sit up with me, grudgingly though it may have been. The doctor told her I could have died. I was very good about not dumping my broccoli down the sink after that._

* * *

It doesn't take him long to learn to curl up in a very tight ball and _not make a sound_ when she shoves him in here. Usually they come anyway, but at least he can say he didn't encourage them.

They've left for the time being, left him here bleeding in the dust and straw, but they'll come back. They always do.

He is completely and utterly alone.

He takes a shuddery breath and uncurls as much as he dares. The crows do not come back. Good.

He wishes he had a scarecrow in here. It works in the fields, why wouldn't it work in here?

The scarecrow would be tall, he thinks, and made mostly of burlap and straw, like the one outside. Maybe it could move, scare the crows away. Maybe it could even break their necks, like Granny has him do when they hit the windows and can't fly.

He rubs a scar on his thumb from one of them. It still makes him sick, that little _snick_ of breaking bone.

But never mind. Scarecrows don't care about that sort of thing. They can't, or they're not good scarecrows.

He wonders what it would sound like. Probably gravely, being made of straw and everything.

**_Heya, kid._**

Yes. Just like that.

_Hi, Straw Man._

**_Want some company?_**

_Yes, please._

Even though he's imagining it, it's nice to have a friend.

THE END


	8. Locker

SwordStitcher-_Go ahead. Laugh. We'll see how much you're laughing when they come after you asking you to 'experiment' on them and trying to remove your clothing. Where are their mothers? __Right there with them.__ Where are their fathers, then? Hiding. Where are you? Laughing at your panic. Thanks, Kitty. Thanks so much._

Emma-**_And thus began a long tradition of running commentary, usually the...heh, heh...observant kind...and of Jonny bitching about me distracting him. It isn't my fault. Unlike him, I'm not blind. And it's fun to watch him squirm._**

APieceOfThePuzzle-_Humph. I tell him that all the time. He doesn't listen. __**Nope! You don't listen to me, either, so it's fair. **__Not really.__** It is. Besides, you'd die without me. Remember your firs... **__SHUT UP. SHUT UP RIGHT NOW. __**Yup. You do.**_

Just-Me-and-My-Brain-**_I taught him everything. _**_You taught me nothing except how to chant 'I don't hear that' without being noticed. __**I taught you how to take a bra off without looking. **__No you didn't. Remember? You got fired because you were a lousy teacher._

* * *

Lockers, he thinks, should come with padding. They just should. After all, he isn't the only one that gets shoved in. He's the one they torment the most, but sometimes they can't catch him and they have to make do with someone else.

But not this time.

He's shut in, stiff and rather cold, wondering when someone will let him out. There's a textbook digging into his spine.

Ho-hum.

Wait. Someone's out there.

"Hey!" He tries pounding on the door. "Is someone there?"

Footsteps run away and he lets his head fall against the back wall. Damn. Hopefully someone will let him out soon…

Voices. Voices and a creaking sound and blinding light.

"Mr. Crane. Again." Oh, great, it's the janitor. The janitor hates him for constantly getting shoved in here. "How many times must I tell you not to play in the lockers!"

Play? He hasn't _played_ since he was six years old. _If_. Cretin.

"I didn't." he grumbles. He's taller than the janitor now, not nearly as afraid of him as he is of someone of his classmates. "You know I didn't."

"Go to the office."

"What…"

"Go!"

At least he's out of the locker.

THE END


	9. Broken

AN: _I was in trouble, when she recovered. It didn't take her long to figure out a few uses for that cane of hers. Shame she didn't break her neck in the fall, really._

SwordStitcher-_Funny, I still have that problem. __Sometimes you work too much and I have to get your attention.__ By stealing my clothing? __Hey, it gets your attention.__ Feeling for pants and coming up blank will do that. __Yeah, well..._

Just-Me-and-My-Brain-_Granny was...not pleased. Scary, by the way, wishes her day was going better. I think she's getting a little claustrophobic...I'm sure she'd return the sentiment if she was able. And if she'd stop screaming for five minutes._

APieceOfThePuzzle-_I was around fifteen. Much to my dismay, these go up to when I was seventeen. God knows why. Nobody cares. Or they shouldn't, if they value their sanity. __**I don't think they do.**__ Their loss, then, isn't it? __**Yes.**_

* * *

"Jonathan!"

No! Not tonight, not again!

"Jonathan Crane, get back here!"

He doesn't know how he did it, or what he's going to do now, but he managed to wrench his arm free and make a run for it. He has the advantage of not wearing a long, heavy skirt and he'll take it.

There! The cornfield. Maybe he can hide in there and she'll forget about him. In the morning he can decide what to do.

If he can get away from her, that is.

"Jonathan!"

He dashes into the stalks, shoving them blindly out of his path. He has to get away from her, he can't go in there again…

For once he's grateful that she makes him take his glasses off before going in-they'd be scratched to pieces by now. He knows his way around in here well enough by now-he should, given all the times he's had to weed it.

He can't hear her voice any more. Did she give up? Did she-does he dare to hope?-have a heart attack?

Gasping softly, wishing he wasn't allergic to everything that grows in Georgia, he backs further into the field. Then his back hits something that feels like a person.

_NONONONONONONONONO…_

It's only the scarecrow. He takes a deep breath and pats its rotting flannel before turning away again. Where is she?

There's a sudden shriek and he jumps, turning wildly in hopes of pinpointing the sound. That was Granny. She didn't sound far, but…

He picks his way in the direction he thinks the sound came from. What w_as_ that, what happened? Maybe she really did die. That's silly, she'll never die. The Devil himself will give her back.

No. She hasn't died, but he'll wish he had.

She's lying at his feet, her ankle twisted very wrongly indeed. She must have tripped in one of the holes out here…

"Child," she rasps, her eyes blazing, "go to Mrs. Nightingale's and call for help."

There is nothing he can do but obey.

God, he's going to be in so much trouble.

THE END


	10. Sun

SwordStitcher-_I was rather convinced that she would drag herself upstairs and kill me in my sleep. __You were an adorable child.__ I WAS NOT. I have never been adorable. I never will be adorable. I AM THE MASTER OF FEAR! __Until I steal your clothes.__Is that my shirt? __Now it's mine._

Just-Me-and-My-Brain-_I didn't need the reminder. God, she was furious...I was convinced she'd lock me in my room to starve. **She tried.** This is true. **You should've left her there. **And had her crawl upstairs with the aid of that rusty scythe? She would have. You know she would. **Thumpity-thud-thud...Jonaathaan...** DON'T._

* * *

He lies in the sun, stretched out and tossed aside like an old scarecrow. The bruises are fading, but there'll be new ones. There always are.

He's drifting now, lulled to sleep by the hot Georgia sun. Above him, Granny's rotting scarecrow stands as a silent guardian. He hates it-it always seems to be watching him-but he keeps coming back here because Granny never looks here and neither do his classmates.

He dreams. He dreams off far-off cities with their bright lights and grand libraries, of magic carpets and of freedom, freedom from the old hag up at the house and of freedom from the teenage devils.

And maybe, just maybe, of freedom from the 'pious' old women that shoot him dirty looks and accidentally knock him against the table with their oversized handbags.

Then his dreams become nonsensical as he falls further into sleep. A flying ninja, a clown…must be too much sun.

He makes no move to get up and above him, the scarecrow smiles.

THE END


	11. Blood

AN: "Razor", a one-shot included in _Thirty-One Days of Scarecrow_, could easily fit into this collection. Seek it out if you like, but be wary of unpleasant themes.

SwordStitcher-_I had my fair share of sunburns. I also had a hat, which worked wonders. But mostly I got sunburns, although those were better than a black eye. Which I also had my fair share of._

Just-Me-and-My-Brain-_Foreshadowing...humph. It was too much sun, that was all. Or maybe a self-fulfilled prophecy. Somehow._

* * *

Not for the first time, it crosses his mind that he shouldn't be so good at this.

He wrings the washcloth out, watching the warm, bloody water trickle down the rusty drain. She didn't leave him there for long tonight-maybe because it started to rain? That theory doesn't make a whole lot of sense, but it's as good as any.

He twists the knob and hears the old pipes gurgle before they spit out more water. It's too hot to feel nice but he doesn't care. He just wants to get cleaned up and go to bed.

Okay…almost done, but there's a nasty scratch on his ribcage that needs attention. It was already scabbed over-those school walls were sharp-and now it had been reopened.

Sometimes he wonders if the world would better off without him.

He presses the hot washcloth against the cut and winces. This…really…hurts.

_Okay. Just get it over with._

It's bleeding again, the red seeping into the white washcloth. Well, it's not really white anymore, but…

Okay. Okay. He's done.

He wrings the washcloth out again and slumps over the sink, watching the bloody water trickle down the drain.

When the water is gone, he looks in the streaky mirror. His sickly reflection looks back at him, red cuts standing out in sharp relief.

Maybe the world really would be better off without him.

THE END


	12. The Third Floor

AN: _Obviously, there are no such things as ghosts. If there were-which there are not-that house would be a prime candidate. To hear Granny tell it, the family was cursed ever since Great-great-great-grandfather Julian came back from Chickamauga with his arm bitten off. Something about a hairy boogeyman. Nonsense, the lot of it._

SwordStitcher-_That's your problem, not mine. I didn't ask for your sympathy. I don't want it. Direct it towards the Riddler. He likes the attention._

* * *

He shouldn't be up here. Granny will kill him if she catches him up in this part of the house, and so late at night, but…curiosity killed the cat.

He has never been on the third floor. He's not allowed. He doesn't know why, but he's dying to find out. Just once, and he'll never come up here again. Honest.

He lights his candle-no batteries for the flashlight-and steps into the hallway.

It's dark up here and very dusty. The little window on the far side of the hallway is cracked and dingy. That _might_ be a mouse skeleton in that old trap.

He opens the nearest door and swallows hard. It's a nursery. Or it was, once upon a time. Now it's covered in dust. He steps inside.

The bed is unmade, with a child-sized body impression still on it. Next to it sits a very large teddy bear holding a little lamb. There's a book of fairy tales on the nightstand, along with a cobweb-covered candlestick, complete with taper.

He turns around and nearly drops his own candle. Sitting in the corner is a small, old-fashioned wheelchair, also covered in dust and webs. Something about it gives him the creeps.

He backs out of the room and goes downstairs. He's confused and frightened and he has no intention of going up there again.

That must have been Granny's brother's room, the one who died as a child. There is only one picture of him in the house, and he was sitting in that little wheelchair at the time.

He wonders if Granny might be…normal…if things had been different.

* * *

He's lying in bed, listening to the rain hammer on the roof, when there's a low squeaking sound. Mice? No, too loud. Weathervane? It's never made noise before. Granny? It's after midnight, the old bat should be asleep by now, cozy-comfy under that feather duvet.

So what the hell is making that noise?

It sounds like it's coming from upstairs and a nasty thought hits him-the wheelchair. That old, dusty wheelchair that hasn't moved in fifty years.

_That's ridiculous._

Ridiculous or not, the image of the ghostly wheelchair rolling down the hall is firmly embedded in his head. Oh, well. Maybe it is the wheelchair. So what? It's up there and he's down here and it can't get him. So there.

The squeaking-it is not the wheelchair, that simply isn't possible-continues. Sometimes it gets louder, sometimes it grows fainter.

Like it's rolling up and down the hall.

No. There are no such things as ghosts. The wheelchair is still there in that dusty little room, right where it was before. It always will be there, more than likely.

So why can't he ignore the noise and go to sleep?

There's a crash of lightning and he pulls the blankets over his head. Maybe if he can't see anything, it will all stop.

Maybe.

Hopefully.

_Squeak. Squeak. Squeak._

Why did he have to go up there? Why couldn't he have stayed in bed, where he belonged?

He was startled up by another noise-a thudding, clumping noise as if someone was falling down the stairs. Oh, god, it knew where he was…

The noise stopped. Now the only sounds were his panicked breathing and the rain pit-pattering on the roof.

He got out of bed and poked his head out, half-expecting to see Granny. Or something else…

There was nothing there. Of course there was nothing there. Something had fallen downstairs or something. It was nothing.

All the same, he went back to bed and did not come out from under the covers until long after sunrise.

THE END


	13. Light

SwordStitcher-_Ah, the wheelchair. I remember an Arkham guard who was thoroughly traumatized by a wheelchair. Very funny. And my schedule is, regrettably full. A little birdy said something about 'creepy Crane'...care to elaborate?_

Just-Me-and-My-Brain-_It was indeed. You know, I found that wheelchair at the foot of the stairs the morning after. I always suspected Granny...the world may never know. Perhaps a gust of wind blew it out of the room, down the hall, and down the stairs._

* * *

Granny sighed, straightened up, and went to go upstairs to bed. It was already ten. She must be getting old, she mused, if ten was late. Or maybe it was chasing after a toddler. She was too old to be raising a toddler.

She was just about to get the light when she spotted said toddler curled up behind the couch. She'd put him in bed hours ago, what…oh.

Jonathan was afraid of the dark. He wasn't afraid of much else, but somehow or another he'd convinced himself that there was a boogeyman in the closet. Oh, the minds of children.

She should have woken him up and made him put himself to bed-it was high time he grew out of this-but she didn't. She just picked him up, carried him upstairs, and tucked him in with the old rabbit she'd given him when he was a baby.

She didn't shut the door all the way, and despite the knowledge that the electric bill didn't need any help, she left the hall light on.

THE END


	14. Fright, Pt 1

SwordStitcher-_Wise choice. And I imagine so-humans are naturally afraid of what we cannot see. It's a survival mechanism. The idiots that wandered into the dark were eaten. The scared ones lived._

Jasmine Scarthing-_Granny was born old, I suspect. __**Or that murder made her old.**__ Always a possibility, Scarecrow. We'll never know, will we? __**No.**_

scribblescribblescribble-_She had her moments. When I got older those moments vanished, but now and again...no matter._

Just-Me-and-My-Brain-_Looking back, I probably should be grateful that she didn't accidentally drop me over the banister._

APieceOfThePuzzle-_Few and far between. And, eventually, not at all. __**And that's where I came in.**__ Did it have to be so messy? __**It was poetic justice.**__ I suppose._

* * *

He didn't _intend_ to startle her. Besides, it was her own fault for not paying attention.

She'd been walking down one hall and he'd been walking down the other, and when she turned the corner she bumped into him, shrieked, and nearly tripped over herself trying to back up.

"Can't you make a little more noise, Scarecrow?" she snapped, straightening out her skirt

_Her mother had to bring it, the last one was too short for the dress code._

and brushing past him with her nose in the air. Bitch. It wasn't his fault that she didn't watch where she was going.

All the same, that shriek of panic had been very funny. Served her right.

He moved his messenger bag to the other shoulder-this thing was falling apart, he needed to repair it before the seams gave out-and continued to the library, trying not to laugh.

It was a rather empowering thing, being able to frighten people. Even if it was only for a moment, the tables had been turned.

What, he wondered, what in the world was _Granny_ frightened of…?

THE END


	15. Fright, Pt 2

SwordStitcher-_She didn't even get that. To my knowledge, she's still out here. She was the last time I checked, anyway. As for Batman...once he was babbling about his father. I have to wonder. Perhaps Freud was right, after all._

Just-Me-and-My-Brain-_I'm smarter than you think I am. What, did you think I was going to come flying out of the closet wearing a sheet and try to give her a heart attack? That would have been funny, but suicidal. No, no, it came about in a very different manner._

Jasmine Scarthing-**_I've always been there, watching. Waiting. Rolling my eyes at Jonny's stupidity._**_ Hey! __**It's true. You were always oblivious...remember when Kitty finally had to come downstairs in a towel because you weren't looking?**__ I was busy. __**Whatever.**_

* * *

This time wasn't intentional either, but it was no less satisfying.

He'd been upstairs, cleaning his room-he'd pulled one of the floorboards loose to make a hiding place. Under the bed wasn't suitable anymore. Granny had found the book and he had paid dearly for it.

But not this time. This time it would be hidden away from glaring eyes and grasping claws.

He shoved the board back into place and stood up. No one would be the wiser, especially not Granny. Her eyesight was going a little, he knew, even though she tried not to show it.

Now, which board was it? Third from the window? Third from the window. He would have to remember that. The third board from the window was his hiding place. Still under the bed, just in case she did…notice something.

Dinner would be ready soon-he could smell it. It didn't smell very good, but it would be the only thing he'd had all day.

He went out into the hall, intending to set the table, and tripped over the rug at the head of the stairs.

It was a narrow miss-if he hadn't grabbed onto the railing he might have fallen. As it happened, he'd made a fair amount of noise-noise that brought a scream to his ears.

Granny.

"Jonny!"

Jonny? She never called him…oh. _That_ Jonny, the one she may have pushed down this very staircase as a little girl.

Guilty conscience?

She rushed into the room, cleaver held firmly in her boney hand, and stared at him. Oh, yes, she did have a guilty conscience. It was written all over her face, along with a healthy dose of terror. Did she think that her brother was going to come back for her?

"Jonathan." her voice was hoarse. "What was that racket?"

"I tripped." He swallowed, realizing that he would be lying down there with a broken neck if not for the railing that he was clutching.

"Be careful next time." she snapped. "You about gave this old woman a heart attack."

It was a shame that he hadn't.

"Sorry."

"You should be." The terror was quickly replacing itself with irritation. "Watch where you're going."

He swallowed hard and stood up to straighten out the rug. She leaves the room, shaking her head.

Well, he wouldn't be doing that again on purpose, but that had been a very interesting thing to see. Granny, frightened of something! He'd be honest with himself, he hadn't believed she was frightened of anything.

He made his way downstairs, still clinging to the railing, and went to set the table.

THE END


	16. Alone

APieceOfThePuzzle-_Linoleum? That mansion dates back to the civil war...oh, never mind. I probably would have hidden it under my mattress-too heavy for her to lift, even if she wanted to. __**Too heavy for you to lift, too. **__I'd have managed._

APieceOfThePuzzle-_That staircase is a death trap. No less than three people have died because of it-accidents, all. These days it's worse, with the rot. Nearly fell through it myself when we were in town for the reunion._

* * *

He is completely and utterly alone.

It was decided yesterday, at three fifteen PM. Scarecrow fought and pleaded and threatened, but it had to happen.

He is too old for imaginary friends.

Never mind that Scarecrow was his only friend. Never mind that now he feels worse than ever. He is nine years old, it is past the time for imaginary friends. Way past the time.

He can still hear Scarecrow's voice echoing in his head, laughing at one of his idiot classmates…NO! No. No more. He is too old for imaginary friends.

So why does he miss his so much?

THE END


	17. Rabbit

AN: _This is adorable.__ No it isn't! It's all lies, that's all it is. __You do know I still keep the pieces of my teddy bear, don't you?__ That's different. __Not really.__ Don't believe any of it. __Of course not. But it's still adorable._

Just-Me-and-My-Brain-_Joy. __**I know! **__That was sarcastic, actually. __**LOVE ME. LOVE ME OR DIE.**_

Jasmine Scarthing-**_I couldn't believe it. _**_You were imaginary! __**I was not. **__You were supposed to be._

* * *

The rabbit is old. One of its eyes fell off long before he had it and there's a tear in one floppy ear. Its tail is long worn into a matted ball and it has zig-zag stitches on the back of its head.

Scarecrow calls it Frankenbunny. Jonathan doesn't find that very funny.

He doesn't remember not having it. It's always been there, staring at him with its dull button eye.

Like now.

It's thundering outside, but Scarecrow's sleeping. So here he is, hiding under the covers and squeezing the poor rabbit to death.

It doesn't mind.

It never minds, even though he spilled apple juice on it once.

**BOOM.**

He pulls the blanket over his head. Why won't it stop, why won't it stop?

**BOOM.**

He doesn't sleep, but at least he's not alone.

THE END


End file.
